


Grown-Ups

by shadowfax044



Series: Mature Adults (Most of the Time) [1]
Category: Psych
Genre: AU after S4 E9, F/M, Homophobic Language, Implied Het, M/M, Minor Character Death, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 12:17:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowfax044/pseuds/shadowfax044
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective Carlton Lassiter was an odd man; Shawn Spencer was one weird cookie. Both have problems expressing their emotions, and though they may be legally adults, they still both have a lot of growing up to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Although the first chapter starts out with a lot of background information, this story actually begins during the events of Season 4, Episode 8: “Let’s Get Hairy.” (In case you need reminding, it’s the ‘werewolf’ episode.)
> 
> Anything you recognize belongs to USA Network. No copyright infringement intended.

Detective Carlton Lassiter was an odd man. He’d discovered and accepted that truth long ago, but every once in a while, the thought would resurface.

 

Before he’d begun seriously dating Victoria Parker, he had worried that his strangeness would mean he would have to be alone all his life, so discovering that Victoria happened to like American history and police shows just as much as he did was a more-than-pleasant surprise. They had, somehow, managed to connect on an emotional level despite her father’s objections and Carlton’s own difficulties in expressing himself.

 

For the first year of his marriage, when Carlton was studying for the detective’s exam and Victoria was focusing on her own career, things had been more than wonderful. Neither was working an inordinate amount of hours, and both were willing to use their vacation time to actually go out and do exciting things together. For their first anniversary, they took a week-long Caribbean cruise—it wasn’t really Carlton’s style, but he just wanted to spend time with his wife, and she had expressed interest in the idea, so he had hunted down the best (and most cost-effective) cruise and dished out the time and money for it.

 

Six months after the cruise, he had officially become Junior Detective Carlton Lassiter… and things started to change.

 

As a regular beat cop, Carlton had seen his share of unpleasant things. He’d been at the crime scenes of several murders and even a few assaults that had turned out to be sexual as well as physical.

 

But being present at the crime scene and working the case to find and secure the people who had committed those crimes were two completely different things. Getting witness statements, speaking to coroners, reading autopsy and rape-kit reports, visiting the morgue, and forcing confessions out of criminals quickly took its toll on a detective if he or she did not have the proper outlet for the feelings that such things invoked.

 

And Carlton had never been good about expressing his feelings.

 

Sometimes Carlton could admit to himself that his falling out with Victoria was his fault, and sometimes he could admit that it was no one’s. Both were true, in a way. He had kept every depressing, horrifying detail to himself—which was his own fault—not wanting to burden his innocent wife with the types of things he heard and saw on a weekly basis. But he never regretted that decision. Even if it was second-hand, information like that would have ruined the carefree, happy person that was Victoria Lassiter—meaning that the emotional distance _wasn’t_ his fault.

 

Thinking about it all made Carlton’s head spin.

 

Although he regretted what his job had done to his marriage, Carlton didn’t have any regrets. He loved his job, even if he went through his emotional struggles alone, even if it meant he was once again a single man. And he had loved—still loved, in some ways—Victoria, but, even if it had taken him two and a half years to admit it, they were better off having parted ways. She could find someone more emotionally open who would have the courage to tell her he wanted a family, and he….

 

Well, he didn’t know yet what he’d do with his bachelorhood. (Although, if you asked his subconscious, it could probably tell you, but he was suppressing those instincts as harshly as he could. He’d hurt enough in the romance department—better to nip that desire in the bud.)

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Shawn Spencer was one weird cookie, and he loved that about himself.

 

Granted, Henry could almost always see right through his BS, and Gus could do the same about eighty percent of the time, but most of the rest of the world struggled to understand him, and that suited Shawn just fine.

 

Anyone who couldn’t deal with his peppy attitude and pop culture references was too boring of a person for him to want to be around, anyway.

 

(And yes, his mother had explained to him plenty of times that his surface attitude and tendency to purposefully make too-light of things was a deflection tactic, and he knew she was right, but he liked to ignore that. If he was afraid of being hurt, it wasn’t his fault: his parents had divorced when he was young, Henry had spent _years_ letting Shawn think that it was _Henry_ ’s fault, and Madeline had admitted to Shawn when he was nearly thirty that she had basically abandoned him. The only long-term relationship he’d had that had never truly faltered was with Gus, who was nearly as weird as Shawn, so why _wouldn’t_ he be afraid of connecting with people?)

 

Just after he turned twenty, Shawn left Santa Barbara without warning anyone first—he called Gus the first time he stopped for gas, though—and spent five years traveling around the country doing odd jobs for short stretches of time, seeing the sights, meeting lots of interesting-but-not-interesting-enough people, and sending postcards to Gus at every opportunity, dead-set on making sure his best friend never thought he’d been forgotten. And on birthdays and the important holidays—Christmas and National Pancake Day and Arbor Day, for example—Shawn made sure to call in the evening when Gus would be home from classes or, for the last three years of his absence, his job.

 

During his time away and the four years after his return, Shawn spent a lot of time doing things. He didn’t like to be still, because it gave him too much time to think. And when he thought, his conscience (which sounded a lot like his dad, incidentally) would remind him that he was running, that this was no way to live, that he needed to find what he wanted to do, to have, and _stick with it_.

 

The day Shawn had finally come back to Santa Barbara, he’d been following that voice enough to know that the only thing in his life he was _sure_ he wanted to keep (other than his motorcycle, which could obviously go wherever else Shawn went) was Gus. He’d shown up with a postcard of the Golden Gate Bridge and had said to Gus, “I thought I might deliver the last one by hand. Save on stamps, you know?”

 

Gus had hugged him for a long time, and they both graciously ignored each others’ tears.

 

Although Shawn sort of suspected, in the back of his mind, that he would one day find something that he cared about too much to give up—be that a romantic interest, a job, or a (oh, god, that word) _home_ —the day he’d realized that he had been running Psych for almost ten months was a major surprise. It had been right in the middle of the case with the missing and promiscuous tennis player, and although he _had_ noticed the sign for the nail salon while he and Gus were out investigating, a pedicure had seemed like the perfect way to relax Gus, unravel the case, _and_ celebrate his long-term investment in his psychic detective agency all at the same time.

 

To Shawn’s surprise, not only was he dedicated to this job, but he was also creating more long-term personal relationships than he had ever managed before. He and Henry were starting to get along, though that relationship still had a ways to go (helped greatly by Madeline’s admission of her own fault in their marriage ending). Juliet was proving to be a marvelous flirting partner—not that he wouldn’t have minded more, but he didn’t think it was actually likely to happen, so he kept it light. Lassie, though he tried to be a constantly-closed-off hard-ass, was starting to soften a little. The man still threw Shawn around once in a while, and his favorite expression still seemed to be his ‘knock it off, Spencer’ glare, but Shawn knew (at ten months and at three and a half years) that Lassie considered him a part of ‘the team,’ even if he’d never admit it out loud. Even Buzz and Chief Vick were growing on him, and Shawn was starting to really enjoy spending time with everyone at the station even if he wasn’t exactly close with any of the other officers.

 

Yes, Shawn had started to (dare he say it) grow up. When he really thought about it, the fact was a little frightening… but then he would remind himself that being a grown-up didn’t mean that he was boring, it just meant that he had Gus and Henry and Jules and Lassie and Psych and his dry-cleaners-cum-apartment, and then he’d feel better.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Carlton sat in his desk chair at the station, reading a case file with his new monocle over his right eye. A few weeks previously, he had attended the first meeting of the Re-enactors for that season, and they had discussed his character for the upcoming Civil War Battle Re-enactment. He had decided that his character needed a monocle and had ordered one; it had arrived by UPS the previous day, and Carlton had been dying to try it.

 

Of course, he hadn’t been expected Spencer and Guster to be standing there when he spun his chair. It would have startled him regardless, having not heard the men approach—seeing Spencer magnified like he was (as usual) leaning too far into Carlton’s personal space had actually made him _jump_ in his seat.

 

“Damn it, Spencer!” he snarled lowly as he tried to suppress the blush that wanted to crawl up his face at his reaction. “I told you to stop doing that, it’s like watching someone while they sleep.”

 

Spencer’s face was nearly blank as he asked, very seriously, “Why were you reading that file like Mr. Peanut?”

 

“I was curious,” Carlton explained, feeling less awkward now that he could see they weren’t laughing at him. “Several military strategists throughout history—you know what?” He changed tracks. “I don’t need to explain myself to the likes of you.” Carlton didn’t need to defend his own idiosyncrasies to a man who pretended to be a psychic for a living. They weren’t laughing at him, so why waste his breath? Spencer didn’t actually _care_.

 

He shoved away the hurt that thought threatened to heap on him and tried to get back to work.

 

Of course, Spencer and Guster wouldn’t let him. He looked down at the paper. “Dee’s Nuts?”

 

Guster adjusted the paper, and Carlton looked again. “Stewart Gimbley,” Guster said, as though that was the end of the discussion instead of the beginning. “Ring any bells?”

 

‘Oh, God,’ Carlton thought. ‘They don’t _actually_ believe that the man’s a werewolf, do they? Sweet Lady Justice, they’re like twelve-year-olds in thirty-year-old bodies.’ Standing up, Carlton held in his smirk as long as possible. “Yea high, yellow eyes… howls at the moon?” The smirk found its way out.

 

The pseudo-detectives tried to convince Carlton that the man had broken out of his “chains” and busted through their window, but the Head Detective wouldn’t fall for it. ‘There’s always an explanation.’

 

Out loud, he teased, “Let me guess—he chewed his way out with his big, bad teeth, all the better to eat you with.”

 

Thinking about the fact that the Psych office now had a broken window, which meant that the man was at least responsible for vandalism, Carlton offered Gimbley’s business card to Spencer and Guster, hoping that they would solve the case of the broken window themselves and stop trying to convince him that werewolves existed.

 

Spencer looked at him before he walked away. “Sure you don’t want to come along?”

 

Where he had come up with the retort, “I would rather adopt a child,” he didn’t know, but the words rang in his head long after Guster and Spencer left to continue their investigation.

 

Carlton had always wanted to be a father. Well, maybe not _always_ , but ever since he and Victoria had first started to become serious, he had wanted that. When they had finalized their divorce, that was one thing Carlton had regretted. He’d thought that the loss of his marriage meant the loss of his opportunity to have children. But now…

 

Now the idea was planted in his head, and he didn’t know what to do with it. Of course, he would rather find another romantic partner, one who knew what his job (also read: his life) entailed and was willing to work through the problems it presented, one who wanted to be a parent with him…

 

But if he was willing to compromise on some of his hours, or if he could find an appropriate nanny—but no, it would have to be a compromise on his hours. If he was going to be a parent, then he would be there for his child.

 

And because adoption was an option at any age, he didn’t need to make any decisions that day. He would take some time to think about it, that was all.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

“Alright, fine. I deserve this one. Let’s hear it.”

 

Of course Lassie had to say that just when Shawn had been singing along with his favorite I-love-Lassie song the night before. “For who? The boy? That’s on Gus’s iPod, it’s back at the office.”

 

Lassie put on a confused look. “Who?”

 

Gus used his stern-voice to say, “Don’t say a word about Deniece Williams.”

 

“Who?” Lassie asked again. Gus looked shocked and pained, but Shawn couldn’t worry about that. He was busy hoping (fearing) that Lassie would go home and look up the song and realize… well, that part didn’t matter, because there wasn’t anything _to_ realize (because Shawn was certain he wasn’t that transparent, and he honestly didn’t feel that way about Lassie. Honest).

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Spencer was explaining how someone was about to be murdered. I hoped for his sake that the explanation was worth the time it would take up. “Yes! And she was having an affair with Dr. Ken Tucker.” He turned to Carlton and explained, “Not Anna Paquin. Polexia. She was his patient. He tried to end it, and she went ballistic. So she’s gonna spill the beans and cost him his marriage and—more importantly, I suspect—his thriving practice, and he can’t have that.

 

“Worst of all, he’s methodically set up Stewart to take the fall.”

 

Carlton was dying to know how _that_ cover-up had been put into place. “How?”

 

For once, Spencer seemed genuinely serious in his explanation. “It’ll sound ridiculous. It’ll make more sense to catch him in the act and then let me do my thing. Trust me,” he ended in a whisper.

 

And for once, Carlton could do nothing else. Even though he had always known that the psychic thing was a lie, he also knew that Spencer got results.

 

And the fact that he was actually being serious… Carlton had always known on a basic level that Spencer knew what he was doing, but it was nice to be reminded every once in a while that his trust in the younger man wasn’t misplaced.

 

Later, when he and O’Hara were leaving Polexia’s apartment to catch up with Spencer and Guster and hopefully prevent Polexia’s murder, he blamed the renewal of his faith in Spencer for his slip up. “Yes, I have the right address, it’s the one you divined!” He always felt a little better about playing along when he was forcibly reminded of how much help Spencer could be.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

As soon as Spencer put the wolf pelt over his head, Carlton knew where the ‘werewolf’ came into play. He would never tell Spencer, but it made him feel a little better about his and Guster’s insistence in believing in the supernatural when things like this happened. No, there weren’t such things as werewolves, but a ‘werewolf’ had been the culprit in the crimes, anyway.

 

Maybe they didn’t actually believe in these things, then. Maybe Spencer (and Guster, of course) just didn’t want to lose his inner child. He was an adult who refused to lose the magic of childhood.

 

Carlton could see the appeal in that.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Shawn could hardly believe his ears, but he tried to hide his surprise. “Well, Spencer, I… guess I should have listened to you.”

 

‘Oh, God, Lassie…. You actually… trust me. Holy shit.’ Shawn felt like his insides were glowing. Even Lassie’s qualification wasn’t enough to dim it—Shawn could tell that it was only for the sake of friendly banter.

 

“Of course,” he rationalized, “no one else would’ve either, so….”

 

Not at all hopeful, Shawn asked, “Does this mean you’re gonna pay for our window?”

 

Laughing, Lassie responded, “Yeah! Right. That’s rich,” he muttered as he walked the murdering psychiatrist to the car. Shawn internalized the smirky smile the detective had given him at the psychic’s quip.

 

It had been a successful case in more ways than one. Shawn was satisfied.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter coincides with Season 4, Episode 9: “Shawn Takes a Shot in the Dark.”
> 
> Anything you recognize belongs to USA Network. No copyright infringement intended.

Carlton groaned as his phone started singing at him. His dream had been… well, it wasn’t something he’d ever discuss with anyone, that was for certain. It wasn’t exactly _rare_ for Carlton to be having sexual dreams about a certain fake psychic, but… this one had been especially graphic. Achingly hard, Carlton groaned again, this time in disappointment at the loss of really good wanking material (and he dimly registered that when he was fully awake, he would be more embarrassed by that thought).

 

Rolling over, he saw the numbers on his alarm clock reading 3:49 am. He recognized the song as the one Spencer had programmed into Carlton’s phone for when the “psychic” called him. It was some song about walking a lot sung by an Irish band—sometimes Carlton thought Spencer wasn’t living up to his creative potential.

 

He grabbed the phone and answered it, partly to shut the phone up but mostly because Spencer knew better than to wake Carlton up for anything unimportant. The younger man was smart enough not to want to get shot, after all.

 

“Spencer, this had better be good.”

 

“Lassie!” The man was _far_ too cheerful for ungodly-early in the morning. “Get dressed and pick up Jules. You guys need to meet me and Gus ASAP, I’ll text you the address. It’s a pretty interesting case, actually, I’m excited! Get here quick as you can.”

 

Carlton sighed as he rolled out of bed and walked over to his closet. “Spencer, for once, couldn’t you explain to me ahead of time what we’re getting into?”

 

“But Lassieface, it wouldn’t be nearly as impressive over the phone! And plus, you’re not really awake yet. Getting ready and driving Jules out here will get you perspiring on all pectorals.”

 

Carlton paused in the middle of pulling on a pair of suit pants, his cell phone in the crook of his neck. When he figured out what the idiot had been trying to say, he snarled, “It’s ‘firing on all pistons,’ Spencer.”

 

“I’ve heard it both ways,” came the predictable response. “Anyway, I’m about to get on my bike, so I have to hang up now. I’ll see you and Jules and Gus at the address I’m about to send you. Later, buddy!”

 

Sighing once more, Carlton said, “Yes, alright, see you soon, Spencer.”

 

They both hung up, and Carlton tossed the phone onto the bed to finish getting dressed. Once he’d pulled his clothes on, he checked the address—luckily, it was familiar enough that he wouldn’t have to look it up—and then dialed O’Hara’s number. After four rings, the voicemail picked up, so Carlton moved toward the kitchen to make a quick pot of coffee while he tried her again. The second time, O’Hara answered on the third ring.

 

“Carlton, if this isn’t an emergency, I’ll kill you.”

 

“You’ll have to kill Spencer—he’s the one that’s called us in.” He could hear a resigned-but-disappointed moan over the line.

 

She sighed before answering, “Alright. How soon before you pick me up?”

 

Carlton checked the clock on his oven: 3:56. “I’ll be there by ten after, and we’ve got about a twenty-minute drive. We’re meeting Spencer and Guster at the scene. I’m not entirely certain whether the crime’s been committed yet or not. I couldn’t get much out of him.” Sighing as he poured the fresh coffee into two travel cups, he grumbled, “Idiot insists on giving us his ‘psychically divined’ information in person, at the scene.”

 

O’Hara hummed in response and said, “I’ll see you in ten minutes, then.”

 

“I’m bringing you coffee,” he offered. He hoped his hope that this would be a well-received gesture wouldn’t translate into his voice.

 

There was a moments’ pause before she answered, “Thanks, Carlton.”

 

He hummed in response, and they ended the call, Carlton heading out to his new Crown Vic to pick up his junior partner.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Halfway to the address Shawn had texted Carlton, Juliet got a text from Gus:

 

**Did shawn call u?**

 

Juliet read the message to Carlton and told him what she was responding. **Alrdy on r way, ETA 10 min.**

 

When Juliet and Carlton arrived, she was immediately suspicious. Gus was standing there alone, wearing a coat over his pajamas, obviously confused. Juliet could sympathize—where was Shawn?

 

“Gus! We got down here as soon as we could. Are you alright?” He looked fine physically, but she didn’t like the idea that he was standing there alone, looking confused.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Carlton was not a happy person in the morning, and knowing that Spencer had woken him up from the most exciting dream he’d had in months (and for the moment, he was ignoring the fact that Spencer had been the star of that dream) and then not shown up himself really, _legitimately_ angered him. Usually, Spencer just annoyed and frustrated him, but if this was some attempt at a practical joke, Carlton was going to fulfill one of his less happy-ending fantasies and cuff the fake psychic the next time he saw him (he’d figure out what to charge him with later—it shouldn’t be that difficult, really).

 

“What the hell is going on?” he snarled at Guster.

 

“Look,” the man replied, pulling out his cell phone, “all I know is that he left me this message about an hour ago.”

 

Spencer’s voice rang out in the night air. “ _Buddy! I figured it out! It’s sweet. The whole thing was just a rehearsal. I’m leaving my place. Meet me down at the storage yard now. Come in your fireman PJs if you have to. Just be there._ ”

 

O’Hara was already in detective mode. “What does that mean, ‘rehearsal’?”

 

“I have no idea,” Guster admitted. Carlton was starting to get a niggling feeling at the back of his neck; something was telling him this was far more serious than a prank Spencer had decided to pull.

 

Guster’s phone rang. “Wait. This just came in from Shawn.”

 

“Read it,” O’Hara answered, sounding stressed and worried. Carlton knew he’d have to fill the role of person-with-their-head-on-straight, but he wasn’t sure he could manage it. Spencer might not be _his_ partner, but he was _a_ partner. A partner who was constantly getting himself into more trouble than he could handle. The niggling worry moved from his neck down to his gut. This was _not good_.

 

His mind was a canvas of wordless worry.

 

With a confused face, Guster said, “I have no idea what this means. ‘Trunk yell-re-fex, o-cone pole peace sig.’”

 

O’Hara shook her head. “What is that?”

 

“It’s gibberish,” Carlton said lowly, though he didn’t really think that was true. He just didn’t know yet what it was supposed to mean. He let his gaze wander and then noticed a reflection of light from a puddle of liquid on the ground nearby, so he walked over to check it more closely.

 

“Wait, there’s more,” Guster added. “‘Binshot not LOL.’”

 

“What is he talking about?” O’Hara asked, clearly getting the same feeling as Carlton about the whole situation. Guster began repeating the first word of the second message, trying to decipher its meaning. When Carlton reached the puddle, O’Hara asked, “What are you playing with over there?”

 

Carlton put his finger in the puddle, already knowing what it was and who it had belonged to. He tried to hide his worry as he examined the liquid on his finger, turned to his partner, and then confirmed out loud, “It’s blood.”

 

After a moment, Guster raised his voice from his muttering and said in a disbelieving voice, “Oh, my God. Shawn’s been shot!”

 

Though he hadn’t needed the confirmation, hearing Guster admit out loud what he’d already expected knocked the breath out of the detective. The knowledge that Shawn was still able to text Guster—meaning he was conscious and had access to his cell phone—was the only thing keeping Carlton from completely freezing up at the thought of Shawn being shot and kidnapped.

 

Only a few seconds had gone by, though they’d felt like an eternity. Carlton stood and moved to the Crown Vic as quickly as he could to radio in the kidnapping, leaving O’Hara to speak to Guster and try to determine what had led to Shawn’s abduction. The routine of calling for back-up and forensics calmed the detective some, though he couldn’t get Shawn’s smiling face out of his mind.

 

What if he was slowly bleeding out?

 

What if he was being instructed to text those things to Guster, his kidnapper hoping to throw them off the trail?

 

What if…

 

Oh, God Almighty, what if he was already dead and the kidnappers were using his cell to lure Guster and any others with him into a trap?

 

Carlton let himself wallow in fear for Shawn’s life for exactly ten seconds before telling himself firmly, ‘No, that isn’t true, and you know it. As sappy as it sounds, you would know. You’re instincts are strong enough to tell you if Shawn were actually dead. He’s alive, and you _will_. Bring. Him. Home.’

 

Taking a deep breath, Carlton left his car and walked back to O’Hara and Guster to fill them in on the ETA of their back-up.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Carlton was explaining about the blood patterns, the car that had pulled out with Shawn apparently in the trunk, and the shell casing they had found on the scene when Henry pulled up.

 

‘Sweet Lady Justice, not someone _else_ that I have to be the strong one for.’ To be fair, Carlton knew that it was his own fault—everyone seemed to think that he hated Shawn… except the man himself, apparently.

 

Well, no, that wasn’t fair, either. But certainly no one expected him to be the emotionally-compromised one in this situation, and that meant that he _had_ to be the strong one. He had no choice.

 

He was the one he most trusted to bring Shawn safely home, anyway.

 

“Who the hell called him down here?” Carlton snarled upon seeing Henry.

 

Guster sounded offended when he said, “I did. It’s his father—”

 

Carlton rounded on him. “Which is exactly why I don’t want him here. If Shawn really is shot, there’ll be no room for family in the investigation.” Why couldn’t everyone understand that people who were emotionally invested often missed important details because they were too busy worrying?

 

Henry had walked up by then. “If Shawn has been shot, there’s no room I’m not gonna bust open to find my son. You got it?”

 

While Henry had been speaking, Carlton had realized that his previous line of thinking was incredibly hypocritical, so he rethought his objections to Henry (who was actually almost crying—‘Shit,’ thought Carlton, ‘please don’t, or I won’t be able to hold it together.’) being a part of Shawn’s recovery team.

 

Still, Henry wasn’t a member of the department any longer, nor was he a consultant. “Henry, _please_ —”

 

“Carlton,” O’Hara interrupted, “this thing may get personal. We might need him.”

 

The Head Detective took a deep breath before capitulating. “If we do this, we do this _my_ way, no questions.” He waited for Henry’s nod before adding, “Spencer will ride with me. We chase the breadcrumbs to find Shawn. O’Hara, you take Guster, retrace Shawn’s steps in whatever ridiculous investigation he got himself into.

 

“We’ve got a lot of ground to cover,” he added in a low voice. “Let’s go.” Carlton led Henry to the Crown Vic, whose lights had been flashing since he’d called in for back-up, and pulled out onto the road, heading in the same direction as the tire tracks in the gravel.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

It was light out when, a few miles down the highway, Carlton had pulled over so that he and Henry could go over the scant few clues that Shawn had left them.

 

“Has anyone tried tracking Shawn’s phone?” Henry asked. Carlton wanted to bite his head off, ask him why he thought the department would be so incompetent as to not have tried that already, but he kept his temper in check, reminding himself that Henry was at least _as_ worried about Shawn as Carlton, and quite possibly more so.

 

“His GPS must not be working. They can’t get anything.” He read the clues out loud from his phone once more before fuming, “How the hell does he expect us to find him with this cat scratch?” He knew, of course, that there was a good reason for what Shawn had sent to Guster. His anger was at himself for being unable to decipher it, for failing Shawn by not understanding the message he had tried to send his potential rescuers.

 

Carlton had to remind himself of Henry’s state of mind _again_ when the man insulted his age and his detective skills. He refocused his anger at Shawn’s shooter and kidnapper and told himself not to let Henry’s idiocy (like father, like son, he supposed) detract from their investigation. Shawn was his only priority right now.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter continues the episode “Shawn Takes a Shot In the Dark.”
> 
> Anything you recognize belongs to USA Network. No copyright infringement intended.

Shawn didn’t know why, exactly, but when he had managed to lose his kidnapper in the woods and turns his attention to his bullet wound, his mind wandered to Lassie.

 

Well, he supposed he knew. Nearly every time he’s had a gun pointed at him Lassie has been the one to prevent an unfortunate ending. Most notably was the Drimmer incident in Lassie’s old apartment. Shawn had managed to get a fractured cheekbone for, ironically, his ‘cheek’ in that situation, and Drimmer had talked about leaving a suicide note with a line about he and Lassie having been former lovers.

 

Also ironically, it was that statement that made Shawn realize his own feelings for the man—along with Lassie’s blasé dismissal of the suggestion. Oh, he’d never try to convince even himself that he hadn’t always known he was attracted to the man, but to actually be lovers, to have a relationship… that wasn’t something Shawn had ever considered before.

 

When he and Gus had been in high school, Shawn had decided that his insane attraction to Billy Zane and Val Kilmer, as well as the aesthetic appreciation of several other good-looking men, meant that he was ‘bi-flexible.’ He could be attracted to a man even though he completely expected to settle down with a woman (if he ever settled down with anyone, that is). Even so, at the moment that he sat inspecting his first (hopefully _only_ ) gunshot wound, he could count his total sexual experiences with men on one hand.

 

There had been a drunken frottage session outside a bar in San Francisco, the city he’d been in on his twenty-first birthday. A year later, he’d gotten a blow job and had reciprocated with a hand job in the back room of a gay dance club in Boston. And a few months before he’d come back to Santa Barbara, he’d had a three-way with one man and one woman, in which he’d been responsible for rolling on the other guy’s condom (and even though they had done plenty of kissing, that was the only instance of _sexual_ touching between the two of them, so Shawn wasn’t sure if that counted or not).

 

Regardless, the point had been that he’d never considered actually having a relationship with _any_ man, let alone Carlton Lassiter, until Drimmer had suggested it.

 

From that moment on, he hadn’t been able to get the idea out of his head.

 

It had been almost a year, and Shawn had taken half that time to get over his ‘heterosexual freak-out,’ as Gus had called it. Shawn’s best friend wasn’t gay at all, but he was one of the most open and accepting people that Shawn knew. Gus had been there for Shawn’s discovery of his bright and tingly Lassie-feelings, as he had taken to calling them—Gus just called him odd and told him to man up and accept that he was falling for the detective.

 

Shawn’s first objections had been on the grounds that he flirted more with Juliet than with Lassie, but Gus had reminded him that this was his usual tactic when he liked someone more than he felt comfortable with—he’d flirt with their friends until the object of his affection was no longer likely to be interested, ‘thereby removing the possibility of a meaningful—and thus frightening—relationship developing between you and the person you have feelings for,’ Gus had said.

 

Sometimes Gus was too smart for Shawn’s peace of mind.

 

When Shawn had rested for a while, could focus past the pain in his wounded shoulder, and had given his kidnapper ample time to wander off too far to catch him, he headed toward the highway to find help.

 

He hoped he lived through this. And when he did, he’d focus more on his relationship with Abigail and his flirtationship with Juliet, and he’d try to put Lassie out of his mind.

 

Gus would probably say that Shawn was doing that because he felt no relationship with Abigail would last and that Juliet would know not to take his flirting seriously, meaning they were both safer options than Lassie.

 

If he did, Shawn would ignore him.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

The peace sign spray-painted on the road sign renewed Carlton’s hope. Every clue that they encountered further boosted his spirits.

 

When Henry explained about the tail light pieces—“Because I’m the one that taught him how to do it.”—Carlton wasn’t sure what to think. Taught him how to break a tail light?

 

“What do you mean, Henry?”

 

The man looked down for a moment before saying, “Shawn was eleven years old when I taught him how to kick out a tail light in case he was ever locked in the trunk of a car.”

 

Carlton wanted to think about that, wanted to process what Henry had said, but there wasn’t time, and his phone was beeping at him regardless. He answered with, “What have you got for me, O’Hara?” She explained about the false ID, and he responded, “Alright, so we don’t know the guy’s name, but he’s definitely our bad guy.” He mentally raised his eyebrow at himself for his Shawn-like vocabulary, but he remained focused on what O’Hara was telling him.

 

As he gave the orders about getting his new vehicle picked up, Carlton allowed his anger and frustration out; it would be accepted that he’d be possessive of and worried about his company car, and he needed the emotional outlet, even if it was a minor one. He hung up with O’Hara and followed Henry into the woods, cursing the fairly-new dress shoes that he was wearing and knowing that they’d quickly give him blisters. But they needed to find Shawn, so he shut his mouth and followed Henry into the trees.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Refusing to look into his reasoning, Shawn asked the man at the gas station to specifically ask for Lassie. Later, he’d tell himself that Lassie was the senior member of the partnership that Shawn spent most of his time consulting with, but at the moment he said it, all he could think was ‘I need Lassie.’

 

Shawn honestly wanted to punch himself when he realized he’d walked right back into the hands of his kidnapper (or, rather, his kidnapper’s partner, but it was close enough).

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Carlton refused to admit the real reason that he was lagging behind—his pain was unimportant right now in the grand scheme of things, and it was the _last_ thing that Henry needed to hear. Instead, Carlton made up a ridiculous and obvious lie to excuse it, hoping that it would help both of their frustrations without distracting from the matter at hand.

 

So far, it wasn’t really working, but Carlton wasn’t the type to let others know about his pain, anyway, so it made some semblance of sense to him.

 

The ripped piece of plaid fabric—which was smeared with blood—obviously had come from Shawn’s shirt. The reminder that he was injured wasn’t exactly encouraging, but the knowledge that he was alive and coherent enough to leave the clue definitely _was_.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Gus let himself and Juliet into the Fluff ‘N Fold that Shawn had converted into an apartment. He was a little worried about the trepidation in Juliet’s voice when she asked, “Did Abigail move in?”

 

Confused at why she’d think so, Gus asked, “What? No. This is Shawn, remember?”

 

“Right, right. Well, has he been particularly aggressive about his hygiene, or has he been cross-dressing lately?”

 

Now, Gus understood, though he was a little disappointed. It sounded to him like Juliet was upset about Shawn and Abigail living together, but he had hoped that Juliet had realized she and Shawn would be no good together. Gus had been waiting for the perfect time to make his own move, but… it looked like that wasn’t going to happen.

 

“Oh,” Gus responded, his disappointment clear in his tone, “no, no. I think they’ve, ah, officially reached the ‘he has a drawer, she has a toothbrush’ stage.”

 

“Ohhh. And how’s that going?”

 

Gus tried to ignore the sinking in his chest as he deflected the question. “Not too sure. I think I found something.”

 

They refocused on the case and what Shawn had been thinking about when he had called Gus and Lassiter that morning. The rehearsal clue now unraveled, they dashed out to the Blueberry. Once they were settled inside, Gus tentatively asked, “So… you sounded… disappointed. About Abigail and Shawn, I mean.”

 

Juliet sighed. “It’s just… for a while, I thought he and I could have something, you know? But then came Abigail, and I decided to just… put it out of my mind. I’ve realized that he and I… well, we just aren’t compatible in the long term.” Juliet bit her lip and looked curiously at Gus for a moment before saying, “Actually, I’ve been thinking for a couple of months that Shawn has been flirting with the wrong detective.”

 

To her surprise, Gus smiled. “You caught that too, huh?”

 

Mouth slack, Jules took a moment to steady herself before asking, “You noticed? What am I saying, of course _you_ noticed. So... really? Shawn and Carlton?”

 

“Well,” Gus said in a clarifying tone, “Shawn really cares about Lassiter, but he’s always been a bit of an idiot when it comes to people he genuinely would like to be with.

 

“ _I_ think he’s dating Abigail because he knows they aren’t a good match, so it won’t go anywhere long-term. I also think he might have managed to convince himself that’s not true because it was why he stood her up in high school—he was afraid they’d get too serious, and he chickened out. He probably thinks that he’s being mature now, but… they’re both way different people than they were in high school; they’re both adults now, even if Shawn tries his best to make people think that he isn’t.”

 

Juliet processed that for a while. It made sense, in a strange way. After a few moments, she asked, “Why does he do that?”

 

Gus shrugged. “I’m not a psychologist like his mom, but she thinks it has something to do with how bad their separation and divorce were. He’s afraid that any relationship he has is doomed to fail, so he actively avoids being with anyone that could actually hurt him by leaving.”

 

“That’s… _so_ sad.” The car was quiet for a moment before Juliet said firmly, “We have to do something to get them together.”

 

Gus sighed. “I'd love to do that. In fact, I've even considered it. But sometimes Lassie is even _more_ emotionally repressed than Shawn. I have no idea how we'd go about it.”

 

Grinning, Jules explained, “I’ve suspected for a long time that there was something there on Carlton’s end. He doesn’t manhandle anyone like he does with Shawn. And the fact that he slipped into calling him ‘Shawn’ since we realized he’d been shot is pretty telling. He’s completely emotionally invested in this case, even though he’s trying his best to hide it. But you're right:  the problem is how to get them together without them realizing what we’re doing.”

 

Looking over at Jules, Gus felt his affection for her rush through him. This was perfect—he and Shawn would, hopefully, both be happy by the end of this little project.

 

Then Gus focused back to the problem at hand. He had to save his best friend first.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter continues the episode “Shawn Takes a Shot In the Dark.” This chapter is pretty short, but the next one should make up for it.
> 
> Anything you recognize belongs to USA Network. No copyright infringement intended.

Shawn was grateful that his acting skills were good enough to hide his panic at the words, “You’ll be dead.”

 

He hadn’t really considered the possibility, before that moment, that Lassie and Jules wouldn’t manage to find him in time.

 

And, as luck would have it, only a few minutes had passed before Lassie and Henry showed up outside the gas station. Any hope of making enough noise to let them know he was inside was quashed before they got close enough to hear anything. Shawn just hoped that ‘Garth’ wouldn’t suffocate him in the name of keeping him quiet.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Carlton didn’t like the look of the gas station that they walked up to. He listened closely, hoping to hear _some_ kind of sound from Shawn, but the place was silent inside, and the man talking to them didn’t match the description that Guster had passed along through O’Hara. (Not that the man couldn’t have a partner, but Carlton didn’t want to jump to any conclusions and accuse an innocent man, or breach protocol—which could affect their chances of putting the responsible bastards behind bars, and that was the second-to-last thing that he wanted, the very last being Shawn’s death.)

 

Although he tried to question the mechanic himself, Carlton was sort of grateful that Henry taken over, even if it _was_ a breach of protocol. It gave the detective time to listen for Shawn and, when he heard nothing, to plan their next move. He was brought back to the conversation when the man looked at Shawn’s picture and said, “No, that guy wasn’t with him. Why, is that guy wanted, or somethin’?”

 

‘Yes,’ Carlton thought, ‘very much so. In several ways.’

 

“You could say that,” Henry responded aloud.

 

Attempting to retake control of the conversation, Carlton thanked the man for his time, though Henry talked over him yet again. Every time Henry did something to aggravate him, Carlton thought about Shawn and his relationship issues with his father. Henry was a good friend, but Carlton could understand Shawn’s strained relationship with the man a little more every time he was in Henry’s company.

 

As they walked away, Carlton asked, “What the hell was that all about? I said _I_ was gonna ask all the questions.” He wasn’t really as upset as he was making out to be, but he had to keep face.

 

And then Henry opened his mouth again. “Old habits.”

 

Carlton seethed. It wasn’t ‘It makes me feel more in control’ or ‘I’m going to find my son,’ it was simply a knee-jerk reaction despite the fact that Henry hadn’t been on the force in several years. Carlton let his anger leak out again.

 

“Well, _cut it out_ , alright? _I_ ’m in charge of this investigation. God, it’s just like working with Shawn,” he added in a mutter.

 

That wasn’t entirely true, though. The Spencer tendency to cut everyone else out was precisely the same, but Henry wasn’t nearly as optimistic or bubbly as Shawn, and Carlton was finding that he missed that. As much as it could sometimes annoy him—police work was a serious business, after all—the light and happy attitude was often just the thing that the team needed to keep from losing their focus. It was just enough to keep worry from overwhelming them, allowing the criminals to be apprehended on nearly every case. Henry was just cranky (and Carlton felt no irony in thinking that, shockingly).

 

* * * * * * * *

 

‘Good God, what is wrong with this woman?’ Shawn thought as he spoke _again_ to Gina. And she called _him_ self-centered?!

 

He had to give her credit, though, for giving him the idea that would allow him a single phone call. Putting as much truth into his lie as possible, Shawn got ‘Garth’ to give him the phone, and he chose Juliet’s number.

 

She wasn’t the one he wanted to be talking to, and neither was Abigail, but calling Lassie wasn’t an option. ‘Garth’ would hear a man’s voice and know that he’d been duped.

 

So Shawn called Juliet and tried to put as much weight into his words as possible.

 

He _hated_ that he had to tell Juliet that he loved her, and he _hated_ having to call her by another name, and he _hated_ … well, he wasn’t going to explore himself any further. If he had any hope of getting out of this alive, he had to focus.

 

Shawn honestly hadn’t expected that ‘Garth’ would be the first one to get shot.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

“Lassiter! I just spoke to Shawn, he’s alive.”

 

‘Oh, thank God.’

 

“He-he-he was trying to give me clues about something. I didn’t understand—none of it made sense.”

 

Carlton was breathless as he spoke, still jogging behind Henry. “What? Juliet, wait, s-slow down. ‘Going back’? ‘Wind chimes’? No, that doesn’t mean anything to me.”

 

Henry turned and stopped. “Wait, whoa!” After a moment, Henry started back the way they’d come. “He’s back at the gas station. Come on!”

 

“Juliet,” Carlton huffed into the phone, “can you make it back to the Mariposa exit off the 166? There’s a gas station two blocks up.”

 

“Yes,” she answered through the phone, “yes, that’s right about where the robbery is gonna take place, I’ll explain when we get there.” She disconnected, and Carlton sped as fast as he could back toward the gas station with the wind chimes that he could now recall seeing.

 

‘Thank God Henry was with me.’ Carlton wanted to beat himself up over missing the wind chime detail, but now wasn’t the time. There would be time enough for that once Shawn was back safe.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

When the group entered the gas station together and found the still-nameless man’s body and no Shawn, they all had a momentary panic. Then Carlton started organizing the group. He. Would. Bring. Shawn. Home.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

All five of them felt a massive wave of relief when they saw each other on the highway, but they soon put it out of their minds to focus on getting Shawn out of the car and getting the perp in cuffs.

 

Shawn found it amusing that Gus and Lassie both expressed their concern for Shawn in the same way. They didn’t want him hopping cars, so they objected to the potential damage to their vehicles (at least, that was what he was telling himself—they couldn’t possibly care more about their cars than Shawn, right?).

 

Henry panicked once Shawn was safely on the hood. “Stop the car!”

 

“No,” Shawn protested, “don’t you dare stop this car, Lassie!” He was going to make sure that the perp got what was coming to him, damn it!

 

Lassie pulled his gun and Henry tried to wrench it from his grip, which Shawn distantly noted was neither safe nor good for Henry’s relationship with Lassie—the man didn’t like others touching his things. As if to prove Shawn’s thoughts correct, Lassie shouted, “Spencer, what the hell are you doing?”

 

“Which Spencer are you talking to?” Shawn couldn’t help but ask, though there really wasn’t any ambiguity.

 

“Doesn’t matter, you’re the same person!”

 

That pulled Shawn up short. Lassie didn’t really think that, did he? That there was no difference between him and his dad? Sure, they shared some of the same characteristics, but Shawn was _way_ more fun than Henry, not to mention twenty-four years younger and much better looking.

 

To prove his worth (and to catch the bad guy, of course), Shawn took the gun from Henry—who handed it over without argument, go figure—and aimed. Steam started streaming from the pick-up, and Lassie spun the Crown Vic, Shawn practically bruising his hands in his effort to stay on the hood.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Once the car had stopped, Carlton’s first priority was to pull Shawn out of the line of fire. As soon as Shawn was out of the way, Carlton set his sights on the perp, grateful to see that he’d already emptied his clip. “Drop it! Drop it now! Hands where I can see ‘em! _Hands_!”

 

Henry went to Shawn while Carlton pulled the man from the car and gently rammed him into the hood of the Crown Vic (at least, ‘gently’ was the adjective he’d use when he reported to the chief later). Looking at Shawn, Carlton let himself say calmly, “Nice shooting, Detective.”

 

“Did you just call me ‘Detective’?” Shawn asked, a little breathless.

 

Carlton fought down the blush that wanted to rise. “No,” he said lowly. He’d never admit to it.

 

Henry gave Carlton a searching look as Shawn suggested, “Hey, shouldn’t we wait for Diesel and Rodriguez before you slap the cuffs on him?”

 

Shoulders relaxed, Carlton reminded himself that Shawn would be alright if he was still standing and could be his usual flippant self. O’Hara and Guster pulled up a moment later, Carlton donning a smug smirk as he clapped the man into his cuffs and stuffed him into the back of the Crown Vic. O’Hara was radioing for a bus, transport, and a tow truck for Guster’s car.

 

With the perp secure, Carlton went over to Shawn, who was sitting on the hood of the Vic. “Let me see the wound, Shawn.”

 

The psychic gave Carlton a surprised look, but he nodded his assent, and Carlton pulled off the duct-taped pseudo-bandage. The wound was fairly small, thankfully, and the blood flow was not nearly enough to mean that Shawn was in any danger.

 

“You’re gonna be fine,” Carlton assured Shawn softly as the ambulance sirens reached their ears. “You’ll probably be in a sling for a few weeks, but you’ll heal up just fine.” Closing his eyes, Carlton took a deep, steadying breath. Shawn was going to be alright. He was safe, and he’d heal.

 

It was over.

 


End file.
